The Golden Flask

by Jim DeFelice

  Jake had been to the Pastures before the war, and knew its interior passages fairly well. He took Hamilton to the east door, passing down the steps onto the broad brick walkway. They walked onto the lawn, away from the house and the nearby bushes.

  The moon was at its fullest. The two men might have had a proper game of skittles, or perhaps the duel Hamilton had promised, had the situation been different. Both remained silent until they reached a point where eavesdropping was impossible.

  "General Washington must see you immediately," said Hamilton. "It is a matter of the greatest urgency."

  Though softly spoken, the words could not have elicited a sharper reaction in Jake had they been shouted in his ear.

  "I've ridden all day and half the night without stopping, except for fresh horses," continued Hamilton. "The general has removed you from Schuyler's command. You're to report to him immediately. No excuses."

  "I have none."

  "Schuyler is in disrepute for abandoning Ticonderoga without a fight," Hamilton added. "His Excellency had one of his famous fits when he heard the news. Several chairs were damaged."

  "As I have heard it, Schuyler's not entirely to blame. St. Clair neglected to reinforce Sugar Loaf Hill, as he did not think the British could send artillery there."

  "A costly mistake, for which Schuyler will be justly blamed," said Hamilton. "A commander must take responsibility.

  "I haven't heard he's ducking it," said Jake. He was honor-bound to defend his commander, even if his assignment had been temporary.

  "Arnold is being sent north, along with more reinforcements. The matter will be taken in hand. You and I have more pressing problems."

  "More pressing?"

  "Come, we have a long ride before us."

  "Wait." Jake caught Hamilton by the arm as he started away. He was only three years older than Hamilton, but had seen enough danger since the war started to make them seem like decades. "Let me change from this uniform first. And I have to say goodbye to Sarah."

  "No time. Besides, the suit looks quite dashing."

  "The breeches are too damn tight."

  "You can find other clothes after we reach the general. We're to meet him below Newburgh by noon, and even if we start now I'm not at all sure we'll make it."

  "Let me just catch Sarah's eye. And a Dutch friend of mine is here who has proven himself useful in difficult situations; the general may want to make further use of him."

  "Colonel — sir." Hamilton's grip on Jake's arm was as powerful as any British grenadier's, but there was a note of respect and even supplication in his voice.

  And something else.

  Ordinarily, Hamilton was happy to rely on the commander-in-chiefs’ authority and address even major generals as if they were privates. But speaking now to Jake, genuine admiration mixed with fearful worry; his words nearly trembled in his mouth.

  "I would like nothing better than to stay on a few hours myself. But the entire British army has disappeared from the Jerseys, packed themselves into ships, and rode out to sea. If we don't discover their intentions within the next few days, we risk a disaster that will make Ticonderoga look like milk spilt at a maids' picnic. No one must be informed of our business, not even the closest friend. You would know that much better than I."

  Duty having clamped her heavy arm on Jake's shoulder, he nodded and followed Hamilton to the horses without comment.

  * * *

  The Dutchman whose value Jake had mentioned would have welcomed an interruption. He happened at that moment to be deeply engaged in discussion with Colonel Flanagan. Not in itself unusual, except that he was spending considerably more time listening than speaking.

  Ordinarily, van Clynne would use any meeting with a close confidant of the commanding general of the Northern Department to press his claims for the return of his ancestral lands, stolen from the family by English interlopers. But it happened that a month earlier the squire had been engaged by the colonel to sell a variety of items, including a very fine carriage.

  "What a coincidence. I was planning to work on that transaction tomorrow," said van Clynne.

  "That would be very good — I could use the thirty crowns, believe me."

  Van Clynne ignored the note of sarcasm in the colonel's voice. In actual fact, the wagon had fetched forty crowns at Half Moon some weeks before, just before the Dutchman ventured north to assist Jake in his dealings with the Mohawk. But such a large interval had transpired in the meantime that his memory of the details of the business had faded.

  Or so he would claim if pressed. For the moment he frowned, allowing as how there was a great shortage of money and an oversupply of wagons, which made achieving a favorable price difficult. Perhaps, he hinted, his usual broker’s fees could be boosted as an incentive to a deal.

  "I doubt that," said Flanagan. "We have a contract. Your word is your bond, you said."

  "As it remains, stronger than any rope. Indeed, stronger than the chain across the Hudson — which I saved, by the by, and which I am due to, er, inspect directly."

  Flanagan caught van Clynne's cuff as he attempted to retreat. "I saw a carriage that looked very similar to mine in town just the other day. Another coincidence?"

  "As I said, there is quite an oversupply." Van Clynne looked eagerly for a diversion. He saw one in the person of a servant who entered the room carrying a tray of Port. "Here we are, Colonel. Something to drink?"

  "No."

  "Of course, you are a beer man. As am I, in fact. Indeed, I had set out in search of some ale when you bumped into me. Here . . ." He called over to the servant. "Two cups of your finest ale. Wait — better make it porter; my friend and I have just been discussing some stout business."

  "Excuse me, sir, but I am serving the wine."

  "Just so," said van Clynne, "but it is a venial offense and I won't hold it against you. Hurry now; the colonel is a military man and has many important things to attend to."

  As the waiter retreated, van Clynne took a step to follow.

  "Hold it, Claus." Flanagan extended an arm and hooked his finger in a buttonhole on the Dutchman's vest.

  "I promise to give the carriage my top priority."

  "There is another matter I'd like to discuss. General Schuyler told me you have recently been among the Mohawk. I would like to know their strength and plans."

  "Yes, the Maquas." Van Clynne frowned, running his eye up and down Flanagan's dark blue uniform. Undoubtedly, Flanagan was merely making a pretext, planning a return to the obnoxious topic of his wagon as soon as possible. "My friend Mr. Gibbs would do better to fill you in. He was gathering intelligence, while I served primarily as facilitator and interpreter. The interviews were not all together pleasant, as I'm sure he will tell you with his usual flair."

  "Jake left a short while ago," said Flanagan. "And you're here now."

  "Where did he go?" demanded Sarah Thomas, who had been silently observing their conversation.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Thomas, but I saw him leave the room a short while ago," said Flanagan.

  Tears welled in Sarah's eyes as anger flushed her cheeks. "He's gone to see Betsy I'll bet. She claimed to have a headache and went upstairs."

  Flanagan had a daughter about Sarah's age and well understood her consternation. "I saw him go outside with another officer," he explained. "Not with Betsy."

  "Colonel Hamilton?"

  The words were scarcely out of Sarah's mouth when van Clynne began to bluster. "Hamilton?" he demanded. "Alexander Hamilton? Are we speaking of the young officer who handles much of His Excellency General Washington's correspondence? A man at Washington's beck and call every hour of the day?"

  Before Flanagan or Sarah could answer, van Clynne was asking which door they had taken and throwing himself hastily in that direction. The Dutchman ran into the hallway, seeking out his friend with loud entreaties and a sprinkling of even louder curses.

  A personal meeting with General Washington had always been a prominent feature of van
Clynne's strategy to win back the rights to his property — and here was his chance to arrange one. Surely Jake would tell Hamilton that the Dutchman's plea was a righteous one. Surely the young aide would escort him directly to the general.

  But they were nowhere to be found. The landless squire expended a considerable portion of complaints and not a little wheezing before he discovered a stable-hand who had seen them and their mounts head south from the estate. With a great shout, van Clynne realized Dame Opportunity was about to slip off his doorstep.

  Not if he could help it. Nor did van Clynne let the fact that the man had only a hazy notion of where the two were going delay him. He trusted to his wits and Fate to reunite them, ere Jake met the general.

  Assuming he set off right away.

  "A horse, a horse!" he demanded. "My land for a horse."

  What Shakespeare might have thought of this plagiarism will not be recorded here. A horse was produced nearly as quickly as the gold from one of the Dutchman's four purses. He thundered into the night, pushing the beast with more fire than Paul Revere displayed the night of his famous tour of the Boston suburbs.

  Chapter Three

  Wherein, Jake and Colonel Hamilton make the acquaintance of several shady fellows.

  The cool night air and the rush of excitement at being summoned by General Washington invigorated Jake. He urged his horse southward with the enthusiasm of a boy released from school the day stripers start their river run. Hamilton was right beside him; the two men took advantage of the strong moon and clear night sky to thunder at full speed through the Hudson Valley hills. They reached the small settlement of Coxsackie, some twenty miles below Albany, in barely the time it would take to spell the name. The horses Hamilton had chosen were slender but sturdy beasts, identically colored — roan, with a single white daub at the left eye. Their muscled legs seemed capable of outrunning the wind.

  As fast as the horses strode, Jake's mind went quicker. He began to fear what might lie ahead. It was not fear for himself. Until presented with a specific danger, Jake Gibbs was not the type to dwell on contingencies. But he realized that the Revolution had reached a tremulous point. Already, there were rumblings of discontent in the army, and the chronic shortage of funds was becoming acute. While delegations had been sent abroad to seek foreign support, European powers such as France would not back a cause that appeared headed for defeat. Another major setback — the loss of Boston or Philadelphia, or even Albany—could easily end all hope of assistance.

  The area Jake and Hamilton rode through had been among the first visited by white men after the continent's fortunate discovery. The Dutch, including members of the van Clynne family, had made this land their own, exploring, farming, and trading for furs. It was still sparsely settled, however, for various reasons beginning with the geography. Hills and mountains rose up in jagged lines from the fiver; between them, all manner of ponds, creeks, and streams flowed in crazy-quilt patterns, now shimmering in the moonlight.

  A few miles south of Coxsackie, a stream crossed the roadway to mark a perfect X on the darkened landscape, and it was here that the two Continental officers stopped to refresh their horses and stretch their own arms and legs.

  The spot was idyllic, but the choice was unfortunate, for no sooner had the men slipped off the backs of their mounts than they were warned to stand away, with their hands held out at their sides.

  "You will do what I say, or I will kill you," said the voice sharply. "Identify yourselves."

  Jake, his barely healed wounds smarting from the bumping they'd been treated to on the ride, stretched his arms stiffly and studied the shadows. A man with a gun was standing to their right.

  "Excuse us, sir," said Hamilton brightly. "We are on our way to New Paltz."

  "No one travels at night on this road," said the man. Tall, he cast a wedged shadow forward from the woods. His accent was odd, though his words were perfect English. The intonation reminded Jake of the Iroquois, among whom he had just spent several harrowing weeks.

  "We are good patriots," answered Hamilton. His service as an artillery officer had not taught him the caution that was second nature to Jake. This was secure patriot country, after all, and his assumption that the men must be must be part of the local militia was logical. "I am Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, and this is my friend, Colonel Gibbs."

  "A pair of colonels," said another voice, this one to their left. There was no mistake about his accent — it was direct from one of London's cruder neighborhoods.

  Jake quickly surveyed the nearby woods, looking for a safe line of retreat. His only weapon was his Segallas pocket pistol secreted at his belt. And Hamilton's larger officer's pistol was snug in the holster on the side of his saddle on his horse.

  "If you've come to rob us," said Jake, "it will do you no good; we've got no money."

  "We're not interested in your money," said the man with the Indian accent, who seemed to be the other's leader. He took a step from the shadows.

  "Come now, friends, who is your commander?" said Hamilton, taking a step forward.

  Jake groaned. "Alexander," he said as he put his hand to his vest, "I believe my stomach is acting up."

  "As well it should," said the leader. "Bring up the light."

  A third and then a fourth man emerged from the shadows near the bushes, the last holding a candle lantern. Its flame was hardly enough for anyone to read by, but it gave Jake enough light to see there were no other reinforcements.

  "Gentlemen," he said, still feigning illness as he stepped forward, "I must speak to you alone."

  "That's an old trick," said the first man who had accosted them, standing to their right. The dim light illuminated white skin, but his forehead and cheek were tattooed with the unmistakable markings of an Iroquois warrior. His head was completely shaven, except for a scalp lock; tied with a large golden feather and brass ring, it hung down the side of his head to his shoulder. His clothes were a curious mixture of European and Indian dress. He wore a black, tailored jacket, but no shirt. A long red ceremonial slash cut a diagonal across his chest. His breeches were leather. In the darkness it was impossible to tell what, if anything, he wore on his feet.

  Jake had come across painted whites before. Some called them changelings, men who had been adopted or stolen as youngsters to live among the Indians and converted to their ways. Others called them renegades, race traitors, and worse.

  It was difficult to generalize about where such men's loyalties lay. But these had already given themselves away. Jake guessed the white Indian and his escorts must be messengers working between the British northern and southern frontiers; they were too far and too misplaced to be scouts.

  "This is not a trick," said Jake. He had used his feigned stomach ailment to put the Segallas into his hand, and now contemplated how best to use its store of bullets. "The name I have used until now is false, a fiction to make travel among these rebels safer. I am Major Doctor Keen, assigned to General Bacon's intelligence service. I am on my way to our lines with valuable information."

  Keen's name was unfamiliar to them, but the mention of Black Clay was enough to give the quartet pause. Bacon ran the British intelligence service headquartered in New York City under General Howe. They were ostensibly if indirectly under his command.

  He was also a man who must not be crossed in the least way. The Englishmen took a step backward, nearly as a group.

  The tattooed man was not impressed. He spat on the ground.

  "Egans, let us examine him," suggested the Londoner. "He should bear a token if he is a messenger."

  "I did not say I was a messenger," answered Jake, working his way slowly toward the man with the candle lantern. He tried to use the same haughty tone Keen would have used. The spy felt safe in usurping Keen’s identity well as his voice, as he had watched the doctor sink to the bottom of the Mohawk River a week before.

  "What are you then?" demanded Egans. Jake's guess about the man's origins was correct — he was
an adopted member of the Oneida nation, among whom he had proven his worth and earned the name of a warrior some years before.

  "I would not talk to one who pretends to be an Iroquois," said Jake, as savagely as if his mother had been accused of being a whore. The white Indian at first did not react, but his anger quickly grew as Jake began to rattle off a series of curses in pidgin Huron. While these ill-pronounced words represented all he knew of the tongue, still they were of sufficient slander to accomplish Jake's purpose. No matter that the stress and accent were wrong; the hate for the Huron nation's eternal enemies, eaters of people and robbers of skins, was perfectly clear.

  "I have spent many weeks among the Huron," Jake told the Englishmen as they strained to hold back the infuriated Egans. He embellished his preposterous tale with a boldness that made it sound plausible. "Working on an alliance. You will help take me to Howe."

  "What about him?" said the candle-holder, gesturing toward Hamilton.

  "Oh, he's just a convenient rebel," said Jake, walking to him. "We shall take him along as ransom. I doubt he's really a colonel, though," he added. "I should be surprised if he's even a captain."

  Hamilton might have objected at this demotion, but he was too busy flying to the ground. This sudden action was dictated by Jake's shout as he upturned the lantern into its bearer's face. In the next instant, he fired the Segallas at the next closest Englishman.

  Jake's finger inadvertently nudged both of the gun's small triggers, and thus two poisoned bullets instead of one struck the man in the chest. Cursing, Jake dove at the last Briton, whose pistol discharged as they tumbled backwards.

  Egans took a step backward, calmly drawing back the lock on his musket. He caught the bare outline of Hamilton springing to his feet and fired in the young officer's direction, ducking as a projectile flew at him. The missile was a medium-sized rock, which missed Egans's head by a half-foot. Fortunately, his bullet missed Hamilton by the same margin.